


Hide My Body

by Pitycup_hearts



Category: Founder of Diabolism, Mo Dao Zu Shi, The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Action, Cute Kids, Horror, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Modern AU, OOC, Randomness, Thriller, just something i started typing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-08-12 02:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitycup_hearts/pseuds/Pitycup_hearts
Summary: A hide and seek game turns deadly when Wei Ying recalls that a serial killer is on the loose. His victims? Kids. Frantic, he goes on a search for Jin Ling, Jingyi, and Sizhui. With the hands of the clock ticking, his hysteria brings him into the city fountain. When he climbs free, he realizes his years have been taken from him. He's sixteen, the age of the next victim.





	1. We Play Hide And Seek

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse this. I legit have no idea what this story is about. I just started randomly typing.  
Let's bring the horror to a modern AU, shall we?

Wei Ying appreciated that the kids wanted him to take part in the game, but going out to search for them now seemed like a chore. He was well in his thirties and easily bored, and it was already getting late. Where the sun had been burning against his back, the moon had stealthily replaced it. He felt the cool breeze of nightlife shift into his clothing. Goose flesh filled his pores into bumps along his body as he recalled stories that brushed the tongues of morning folk and knuckles around hennessy cups. He could’ve used a drink, if he wasn’t now filled with worry for the kids.

“Jingyi?” He called out, walking along the city streets. Street lights dumped light against his scalp and chest, creating a long jagged shadow behind him.

“Jin Ling?” He called his nephew, knowing full well if the game was still in place, they wouldn’t voice themselves. He tried for the last one, the reasonable one.

“Sizhui? Guys, it’s getting late, we should head back.” His voice now had an uncomely edginess to it that trembled when the street morphed it into echoes. What he actually wanted to say was that there was a recent case of children kidnappings. None of the bodies had yet to be found, and it was a horrible fucking time to play hide and seek.

Surely, they wouldn’t become victims, right? After all, the kids that had gone missing were younger, more free and more careless. No one would think to touch heirs from the Lan and Jin family. Though the kids had seeped into their teen years, they were naïve ones, still clutching onto child tactics and games; hence, the current predicament, and Wei Ying was feeling rather old all of the sudden. His lower back was hurting from being hunched in front of his desktop at work, taking phone calls from disturbed individuals or people he liked to call bastards but politely. Stocks, the usual.

He turned a corner and entered the square, street lamps twitching while a family of moths busied it. A frantic waltz of wings and blackness. He swore he could hear their wings flapping wildly against one another. If fear had a sound, he was sure it was mimic the same panic-stricken movements. And yet, the moths clung to the light, drawn to it unearthly.

“Guys! I’m going to head back if you don’t come out,” he lied, because there wasn’t a single way in hell he would’ve abandoned them. Jiang Cheng would’ve killed him, Yanli would be worried ill, and Wangji would’ve personally flew back from Korea to behead him with his eyes. That, and they were pretty much his nephews. He needed to take care of them.

With the abandonment of civilization, it seemed, when the streets deserted themselves and left CLOSED signs on doors, when coffee shops flicked off their ceiling lights, when taxis even seemed to retire, everyone succumbed to much needed sleep. Wei Ying was one of those individuals. He could already feel the weight of his office job munching into the depts of his aging soul. He felt well into his thirties and certainly too old to be playing hide and seek in the god fucking city. While a serial kidnapper was on the loose.

_Little Wang Xiu was seven._

_Jinhai was eleven years old._

_Meifeng was nine._

_Minzhu was thirteen._

_Song Yu was fifteen._

Victims. His thoughts shifted to the worse scenarios. Why was it now that it seemed the names and ages were coming to him? The ages were getting older, like the monster had grown tired of little bodies and prowled on the developments of youth. Wei Ying could imagine him crouched behind the rough pricks of a bush, on his knees and palms as he watched the psychology of kids rush into adolescence rush into young adults. Watched as their tongues danced around phonetically to proper words, to formal structures, to vernaculars. Watched as their hair fell from their ears to their neck to their shoulders. As waists and breasts developed. As form and structure emerged. As confidence sparked into existence.

Then he would take it away. He would capture them, tear away their confidence, force them into submission again, force them to be young and foolish and free and trapped all at once.

Then he’d.

Kill.

Them.

Wei Ying gasped, terror in his eyes. Before he knew it, his body and back pains walked directly into the city square’s main tourist attraction, the fountain. He fell into the water, his black suit soaking into his skin as everything turned to the smell of undrinkable water and hopeful pennies at the bottom of the fountain. The water should have come roughly to his ankles, and yet he was falling falling falling still. He let out as shout as the rust of the water slipped onto his tongue and between his teeth. He was forced to swallow, his legs and arms waving frantically.

The sound of flapping wings filled his ears like cotton. He could see himself hysterically dancing around the flame of a street light, see his vision blur to reason. Was he, the second son of the Jiang family, the one who denied the CEO proposal from Fengmian, going to die in his thirties unable to protect these naïve children? In a fucking fountain?

He could feel it. He didn’t know what it was, but death was close. It wasn’t in the fountain, it was prowling outside, it was waiting and watching. It knew where the children were hiding.

_Take me instead, take me instead, _he panicked. The water around him stunk of metal and blood, everywhere red and crimson. His mouth and eyes and ears filled with it.

_Oh my god, no! Help me! Help me, _he screamed in his head and out loud, tasting the worst of the muck enter the buds on his tongue. He began to choke, his body freezing despite the early rush of autumn. His chest was heavy, ribcage tightening around his heart as it throbbed with horror, extending to hold onto life. He didn’t want to die.

Someone reached in and pulled him by his shoulders. Two hands, then two by his elbows and two by his waist, and finally he trembled free, falling onto the support around the fountain. He gasped in air, filling his aching lungs with fresh fresh fresh air. Unhinged, he looked around frenetically for the blood covering his body but all he saw were beads of water, his hair clinging to his forehead, his socks soaked from inside of his shoes.

“Dude, how did you fall into the fountain? You gave us a scare!” Came Jingyi’s recognizable voice. Wei Ying threw his arms around him instantly, relief shaking his shoulders. Beside him was Jin Ling and Sizhui safe.

Jingyi didn’t pulled himself free but he looked rather uncomfortable.

“You’re welcome, man. Just be careful next time.”

“Do you live around here? We’ll walk you home. We’re looking for his uncle anyway,” Sizhui said with a kind smile, pulling him entirely from the fountain. Wei Ying turned to see the water passive, the fountain quiet, the moths gone.

He looked at them confused.

“I’m right here,” he said to them, earning one pair of furrowed eyebrows and two arched ones.

“Nice one, dude, but we’re really going to get in trouble if we don’t find him and head home,” Jinyi said.

“He’s so old, I bet he fell asleep,” Jin Ling said. On any other day, Wei Ying would’ve swung him on the back of his head the way Jiang Cheng would’ve, but today he withdrew himself. He pulled his sleeves up to find the veins that ran along them gone, the veins he had done bench presses to earn. His arms felt lanky, his stomach soft. He ran his hands on his outer clothing to examine himself.

“H-how old do I look?” He asked them, bile rushing up his throat as he swallowed. His hands began to shake, a migraine floating just by his temple.

“I dunno’, maybe sixteen?” Jin Ling asked, a note of annoyance on his tongue. Sizhui gave him a pleading look that told him to behave.

“He might’ve hit his head. Be nice,” he said. To Wei Ying he said, “do you remember your name?”

“W-wei Wuxian. Sizhui, it’s me. It’s uncle Wei.”

The three pairs of eyes stared at him in horror, Jin Ling taking a step backward. But they stared closely, the same set of eyes, the smart nose, the sneaky lips, the soft black hair growing just past his shoulders.

The suit. He was wearing the suit with the Jiang crest on the breast pocket. And it was red like blood.


	2. Someone Was Whistling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was sure those eyes were behind him, and they were following, mimicking his traipse, counting his breaths, chanting his nephew’s name like someone screaming help me help me help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so shocked that people are actually interested in this story!  
Thank you for the comments and the kudos so far ♥  
I guess i'll be updating this drabble into an actual plot.

His collar hugged his neck like a noose, forming red underneath, a rash perhaps where the fabric kissed his skin. He walked faster, being sure to count the three silent heads behind him, one face skewed to examination, one of pure fright cooperating with confusion, and one with utter disdain and removal. He breathed into his fist. Any issue could be tackled as long as the three boys were safe and sound.

Quiet steps were loud echoes on the street pavement. He was careful to instruct their direction under the heads of street lamps, watching one flicker up ahead as though it were a final destination. He walked faster to catch up with it, finally sighing with relief as his Mclaren Speedtail emerged behind a wicked corner. He almost couldn’t recall parking the red car in such an area, but his feet brought him to the door, his fingers pressing unlock on the keys. They pooled into the car, his wet suit dripping water like saliva onto the cushions of the seat. He heard a little squishing sound as the fabric rubbed at his thighs, discomfort rushing to his cheeks. Removing the outer layer, he threw the suit jacket onto the passenger seat floors, his eyes checking the rearward mirror for the security of three bodies. He counted, holding his breath with each digit until the last of the bodies piled into the back seat.

_Let’s get the fuck out of here already, _he thought, and then a corrupt notification. It was bright green, pointed teeth in the form of iniquitous white letters in the most profound formality.

NO GAS.

Not, “you’re fucked,” but “no gas.” His fingers curled around the wheel, white around his knuckles as he drew in a sharp breath. He was certain the gauge hand was a slit away from full for he never allowed his baby girl car to starve, but here she was, famished and lacking, cooed by a quaint corner where she was eased to sleep. Someone had drained her of her nutrients, waiting for the stroke of starvation to choke her engine into a dull creep, a body under the trunk, dead dead dead.

For unknown reasons, Wei Ying couldn’t stop thinking about death. He felt it in that alley, crawling into the nooks of his window, into the stitches of the seat cushions, into the bodies of his three little boys. He turned around quickly to regard them, forcing a frightened but sure expression on his face.

“Sit here. There’s a gas station close by. I’m going to grab some gas and get us home,” he said, a flash of false confidence before his eyebrows drew down and his lips would pinch.

“Uncle Wei,” Jin Ling called, hesitant. Where a tremble had been, he had covered with boldness, and yet his expression abandoned his courage. There was something obviously wrong.

“Lock the door and don’t move,” Wei Ying ordered. He could see himself in the mirror, the stain of the glass unable to hide his delicate features. Where he had been careless was covered by a layer of concentration, too austere a look on the features of a youth. He truly looked around sixteen again, but carried the severity of his adulthood. Without waiting for the kids to answer him, he exited the car and began what felt like a dreadful walk just a few blocks down. He turned into a dark corner, trying to escape the light where his silhouette was made visible. Behind him, the flicker of the street lamp could be heard, like moth wings glitching and twitching until their bodies fell to dust.

He swallowed. It was just his nerves, his nerves were agitating his rational and now paranoia had slipped from it. Pragmatically, he was fine, anxiety informed him different.

It said run.

His hands were undeniably shaking. His instincts caused his stomach to growl like a beast attempting to defend him. It released a roar and his legs grew nimble and weak. The shadows that the moon casted seemed to unnerve themselves into critters watching him walk, hungry eyes, distorted forms. But they were not the eyes that crept into his skin. He was sure those eyes were behind him, and they were following, mimicking his traipse, counting his breaths, chanting his nephew’s name like someone screaming help me help me help.

Sizhui Sizhui Sizhui.

Jingyi Jingyi Jingyi.

Jin Ling Sizhui Jingyi

Wei.

Ying.

His own heart said faster faster faster. He began to run, his feet kicking into the pavement, sounding off as he barely missed a puddle. He could hear the squeak in his shoes, feel his socks slide up and down. Then the cheap lights in a desultory gasoline station sparked layers of dim bright streaks up the path. He threw his arm forward, yanking the door open and hurling his body safely behind the doors like the lights would keep him safe. Turning to look through the doors, he saw no one. Not a single person had followed him. Nerves, that’s what it was. Nerves.

Quickly, quickly, he bought gas in a container and sent himself back into the darkness.

\---

Someone caused a trivial bump beneath the car, a soft kick perhaps. The kids waited patiently inside, discussing what could’ve taken place and altered the appearance of Jin Ling’s uncle when the trivial bump became a minor bump became a solid bump became a loud one. When it sounded off to the left, the three of them moved towards the right, bodies on bodies, attempting to secure a minute portion of space, surrendering the rest to the offender. Sizhui wrapped his arms around Jingyi’s waist, pressing him against the right door while Jin Ling perched on both of them, his head brushing the ceiling. Their knees jabbed into his shins while his body hunched over them like evil casted upon a lake. They looked at one another in horror when the bump followed them to the right of the car. Jin Ling immediately abandoned them, jumped towards the left as they slid to meet him. The dance continued that way, sending the children to the left and right of the car like a mini waltz. Each thump, another chilled breath would blow against their necks and they’d pull one another closer. In the process, they had stepped on one another’s toes too often to be deemed appropriate, but fear left no place for protests. Their hearts beat in unison, a petrified throb against the ribcage until Jin Ling mustered up enough courage.

“Stop!” He shouted, his voice appearing at a paltry level, but full of vigor and authority. He was a Jin. He was not afraid. He would make this end.

It stopped. Too quiet for comfort, stopped into silence into nothing into nothing-er. And then the vehicle was surrounded by a formless being. Everywhere was a body of smoke, gently at first, as trifling as cigarette smoke before it built mass, before growing hungry, before it enveloped everything into its confines. They couldn’t see a thing.

“W-what is,” Jingyi began to ask just as a familiar click sound was discerned. It was a small click, one that could be neglected but given the circumstances, the click of the car lock seemed quite measurable. They stared at one another, colors draining from their cheeks just as Jin Ling threw himself forward, reaching wildly over the passenger chair to lock the door with his tiny finger. With the sound, he recoiled at once, returning to the other two. His stomach twisted inside, knots knotting themselves, twisting hist intestines. Where was his uncle? 

Suddenly, the left lock of the back door unlocked itself. There again, the dull click that meant nothing was now the only means of safety and vulnerability. Sizhui slipped across the seat, locking it at once, listening as his own breath shook. He recoiled, like being too close to the doors surrendered their warmth and shook their bones into frost. Corpses were cold.

Before he could fathom relief, Jingyi was at the right door at once, locking it with his finger. No words left their lips but it communicated terror: the front seat. Jin Ling launched forward, hurling himself into the passenger seat when again, the look undid itself. He couldn’t yet breath, yet turn, yet retract his finger when the driver seat unlocked itself. It seemed so far away all of the sudden, one obnoxious steering wheel shielding it, one entire body away. Jin Ling bit hit tongue and reached out, but the door swung open. The fog instantly entered the vehicle, filling every nook and bend within its prison. Jin Ling’s arm was still outreached, shaking with such freight that his shoulder began to give.

Nothing happened. Happening. Happens.

Jin Ling whimpered, watching quietly, the fog kissing his cheeks and sliding into his clothing. Autumn seemed colder, too winter in the heat of the car. He licked his lips for the warmth of his own body before he drew himself forward, shaking hand around the handle before he yanked it shut. The sound of safety sounded as though an axe was taken to the head. It was a thunk, and then quietness. Until the three beeps started from the car, the ignition, the three sounds that shriveled the slumber from the tires and woke the engine. The young boy could yet reach over to press the ignition off before music began to play from the speakers. At first, at a low volume, barely noticeable until it gained voice, gained sound. It became louder and louder and louder until their ears wanted to bleed. The boys threw their hands against their ears, but Jin Ling reached for the volume nob, turning it down to 0 frantically. He could feel the nob resist him, turning the other way, but with both hands he spun wildly until he was sure he had completely broken it. The music stopped at once.

Jin Ling collapsed into the back seat beside the two of them, their bodies offering him warmth again. He could feel Sizhui shaking beside him. Jingyi slowly turned his head to the left, his lips trembling, his skin as pale as the fog that invaded their bodies. When Jin Ling turned to face it, Sizhui grabbed his hand to stop his own from shaking.

A strange man was filling their car with gasoline. He stood there, gaze averted, face covered by the mist. When he had finished, he left the gauge open as if taunting them into the naked of the night. The man had not been Wei Ying, but he was walking in the direction Wei Ying was going to come back from.

As he left, the mist began to follow him. Jin Ling climbed forward and locked the driver seat then pressed the button to turn off the car. The lights of the vehicle died out in an instant and they succumbed to darkness once more.

Sizhui stifled a sob. They could hear whistling farther off. Wei Ying was nowhere in sight. 


	3. The Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, oh my god, he was thinking, running faster and faster, the wind biting at his cheeks and muddled clothing. He turned to evaluate his distance and the man, the wicked man. The wicked man was running. The wicked man was coming in his direction.

Walking back lacked its composer, arms aching from the weight of the gasoline, hands unsteady from the race of his nerves, Wei Ying kept his gaze alert. The silence of the city only heightened the quiet outbursts of trivial noises, a silly pitter patter of a plastic bag of chips that had missed the public garbage cans, a rodent that had scurried back into a lone alleyway, an incessantly drip drop that he could not locate. He didn’t remember the car parked so far away, the journey back seeming twice as long, twice as dreadful.

Music.

Someone was whistling. He walked faster, careful to blend into the darkness, his shadow sheathed by the armor of the building cast. His lips trembled against the cold, or what he told himself was a chill. His clothing was drying, catching the wind and stitching it against his warmth until it stole the remainder. He shivered, looking behind him and then forward again when his phone rung loudly into the night. He tapped his pocket with his good hand to silence it, swearing under his breath as he worked it free from the fabric. Jin Ling was calling. His heart was almost caught in his throat seeing the name of his nephew. Quickly, he slid to answer, forgetting the dangers around him as he spoke clearly.

“Jin Ling, are you alright?” There wasn’t a response right away, so he repeated himself. “Jin Ling? Jin Ling, I asked if you were okay? How are the other two?”

“U-uncle Wei,” Jin Ling said, his voice shivering as though the cold had ensnarled him as well. It was breathy and almost wordless, hanging onto syllables so desperately that the man almost failed to decipher their implications. The boy had said, “A-a man. A man came. Please hurry back.”

Wei Ying swallowed. “Don’t leave the car. I’m coming back.” He attempted to resemble the sternness in Jiang Cheng’s tone, but his voice was lacking and youthful. He almost sounded as afraid as the kids. Because he was one. Quickly, he pocketed his phone just as a man walked past him in the most apathetic fashion, unconcerned, eyes ahead of him, a night stroll. A cigarette was in the man’s right hand, the darkness obscuring his face, the smoke blowing in Wei Ying’s direction. He had walked so _close_. So close that Wei Ying’s knuckles nearly brushed the man’s business pants where a crease was still visible. The man took along with a him a beleaguered tune, a haunted whistle that seemed to be trapped inside of his throat and the confines of his lips. It was lack of a melody, just sound sound sound that didn’t cooperate with one another, sticking their fierce high notes into a throaty grumble of a trombone belch.

The man was walking so _slow_. It was just a little while ago and yet the man was still in such proximity that Wei Ying could yet compose himself to discard of his goose pimples. Was it the cold or was it fear?

The man was walking _so slow_. Wei Ying tightened his grip on the gasoline, his expression attempting to construct some degree of collection. Suddenly, acid rushed up his esophagus, like a rancid holocaust on the buds of his tongue.

It was fear it was fear it was fear. He turned quickly, without waiting for the man’s reaction, his heart falling from his chest and intestines pouring out but only in his thoughts. Inside, he could hear them quiver and sludge, panicking under the affliction of his adrenaline and nerves. His breath was caught just behind his mouth, panting. He started to run, his reason dissolving like ashes in the ocean. He shouldn’t have run from the stranger, the man had done naught to him, but his legs took to speed, sending him in the opposite direction.

_Oh my god, oh my god, _he was thinking, running faster and faster, the wind biting at his cheeks and muddled clothing. He turned to evaluate his distance and the man, the wicked man. The wicked man was running. The wicked man was coming in his direction. The wicked man was catching up. The boy, Wei Ying, Wei Ying was slowing down.

He could feel himself trip over his own foot in the aggravation of his thoughts. Throwing the gasoline behind him for it slowed him down, he turned the corner and ran with all of his might. He had missed the wicked man as the alley filled with boisterous laughter, raw laughter like it had been peeled from between someone else’s teeth.

_Where’s the car, the car? I parked it here, I parked it here! _But Wei Ying could barely discern what was in front of him. His fear had caused such unnerved shaking that his vision began to blur. He searched for the twitch of the street lamp to find that it was in the opposite direction. He could’ve whimpered, but he gritted his teeth to stop the chatter. Turning back brought the wicked man on his tail again, large arms reaching out to pull Wei Ying in by the waist. The boy dodged it, jumping into the ground and rolling onto his knees before he was up and running again. His head was hurting hurting hurting as his heart beat harder and harder within his chest.

Again, the man laughed, but Wei Ying was fast, gaining some distance again. He thanked how athletic he had been as a kid, running while his heart seemed to slide out of his mouth each time his foot hit the pavement. The tread of his pulse felt like speedbumps and icy terror frosting over his ribcage. At last, he could make out the obnoxious red shape up ahead, three heads within, peering out at him. One looked excited to see him before the face skewed into one pale ghostly form. The two other faces filled with terror, fingers pointing behind Wei Ying. He could hear them gasp and scream even from the distance.

The laughter came from behind him again, but Wei Ying slammed his body against his McLaren, unable to stop in time. With clumsy hands he yanked open the driver seat door as Jin Ling pulled him in. Collapsing behind the wheel, he obstructed his fear for just a moment enough to turn the car on.

“He’s here, he’s here!” Jingyi screamed. The wicked man was so close, his face covered by a mask. Even the night couldn’t distinguish the haunted glaze of his eyes. Sizhui wailed beside Jingyi, the car instantly skidding forward, almost running the man over. Wei Ying’s eyes were large with shock. The gauge was now a quarter of the way full. Wei Ying barely missed the pole in front of the car as he pulled it free from the alley, speeding down the deserted city streets. He had accidentally hit the windshield wipers and now the grating sound filled the silence. He checked the rearward mirror: the man was now walking, turning in the opposite direction like he no longer cared. Or he would come back.

Jin Ling took hold of Sizhui, trying to comfort him though his own shaking barely halted. His lips still trembled, and his fingers failed to clasp Sizhui’s hands appropriately.

“We’re okay now. We’re okay,” he told him, though his words held no permanence. They were written in pencil and anyone could’ve erased that courage. He looked at Jingyi’s face, eyebrows drawn forward in a furrow. Their eyes watered but neither boy cried.

Wei Ying finally arrived at the Jiang estate, pulling into the parking lot. He rested his face on the steering wheel, then ran a tired hand down his exhausted features. Opening the door, he let the kids out, Jing Ling gripping onto his arm the way he never would’ve in the past. Wei Ying could see that the gauge was still open. He took a deep breath, reaching over to close it when he saw a large crumbled piece of paper lodged in the opening, too large to slide into the capsule of gasoline. He reached in and pulled it free, his hands firming themselves, but his knuckles tightening to white.

Inside of the paper a crushed moth lied, no longer twitching and fluttering under the light of a street lamp. It was lifeless, wings cruelly broken from the jagged edges of paper, like someone had lured it in and encompassed it in darkness before taking its life.

Wei Ying had always been drawn to the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot to update! (」°ロ°)」  
Think i'm leaning towards paranormal rather than just thriller. What are your thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was an elegant picture, innocent and uncomely immaculate if not for the one reason that goose flesh rose up Wangji’s arms: the picture seemed overly invasive.

Explaining to Jiang Cheng extinguished a fragment of Wei Ying’s trepidation, though he must’ve admitted to himself that the man’s expression infused some amusement back into his bosom. It was quite the mixture, and the man had underwent a fuse of colors to his cheeks before he landed on the disaster of a conclusion: Wei Ying was required to attend academy again for just a while as they figured out the particles of their distress. The last thing anyone wanted was for truancy authorities to take account of a young man roaming the streets in audacious fashion despite Wei Ying’s completion of university and a Master’s degree; that didn’t matter when he appeared sixteen. At least eight repetitive phases along the lines of, “why is this happening,” later, Wei Ying was seeing himself off to an obligatory shower and a dire need for sleep. His bones already fell under lethargic tendencies, his movements slow and eyes wary with the brush of sleep. Still alert, he brought himself to the window and peered out. Nothing.

They hadn’t told Jiang Cheng about what had happened, just the detail that he couldn’t obscure: the fact that he was half of the man’s age now. Besides, now there wouldn’t be any question as to who the rightful CEO position should’ve descended to. Wei Ying was much too young for the position, but his eyes were aged with experience and he didn’t want to recall it.

A smear of fog formed around his palm as it was pressed against the glass, and it was cold. He instantly thought of the same glaze of frost in loving grey eyes that didn’t catch the light. The light seemed to dodge them entirely and darted to fierce bodies of warmth. Where they avoided Wangji’s eyes, they danced in his own, but he couldn’t seem to extract any further warmth from the autumn air. His room felt idle, deserted, and alone. He stood there without company.

He must clear his head. Jiang Cheng had obviously adorned some reticence for the man’s expression was removed and unsettled. The had landed on Wei Ying and Jin Ling with a knowing crease of his eyelid, narrowed, then released with passivity again. Jin Ling had simply paled at the prospect of attending academy with his old man uncle. As long as that replaced the child’s momentary fear, Wei Ying was alright with the notion of his own age. His little nephew had gone to give his father the daily phone call, and Wei Ying had given him a sharp look. Jin Ling had nodded in agreement: the details would be scarce, the truth would be fabricated.

Being in his room now, Wei Ying settled into bed, the warmth of his blankets finally defeating the frost that had befell him. His phone gave a sharp _ding_ as if to pull him from it. He checked, annoyance plastered across his face, lips pursed, until he saw that it had been from Lan Zhan. The message was simply and brief the way Lan Zhan had always been. He stated that he had seen butterflies during a walk at Seoul, and there was picture of a bundle of white butterflies around a peony. Wei Ying instantly shot a glance towards his cabinet surface where a wrapped corpse of a moth lie. They say that butterflies represent the dead’s spirit, but moths represent the death omen itself. Wei Ying had seen moths. Lan Zhan had seen butterflies. Black and white.

_If I died, what color butterfly would I be? _Wei Ying thought. Would he be like the beautiful white butterflies that fluttered around flowers and dance in the capsules of life, or would he haunt the objects clinging to light, a haunted body covered in darkness, a moth? Wei Ying curled up in his bed, placed the phone beside him, and chose not to respond.

\---

Lan Wangji was a man of many things and was certainly one of patience. Accustomed to Wei Ying’s instant replies, he waited far into the night where even Wei Ying’s curfew tailored to his system and aroused him with sleep. Wangji’s own eyes were heavy, having should’ve been in slumber five ago. Seoul was one hour ahead of Beijing, just another dreaded hour without a reply. The last thing Wei Ying had said was that he would be taking the kids out to play. Surely, after returning, he would give an account of his day as he’d always done, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. When it was finally 1am in Beijing, sleep crusted the edges of Wangji’s eyes, and he ultimately decided to fall into slumber troubled with his concern. It was three hours later that his eyes began to flutter, his eyelashes combing one another through his slightly agitated blinking. His eyes opened at once, grey orbs that appeared black in the lighting. Beside him, his phone vibrated rapidly, constant and unwavering. He took it in his hands, not yet sitting up, simply holding it above his face so he could scrutinize the issue. The device continued to vibrate despite lacking any content; there were no notifications or messages that manifested. Vexation appeared just over one of his eyebrows as he dimmed the lighting. What time was it? Certainly not one deemed appropriate for the malfunction of his cellular device. He attempted to silence it to no avail, then to restart the device. It restarted handsomely, a small scale abstraction of a tune before the lights blinked to life. In the quiet of his hotel room, it was rather loud indeed. It reminded him that he was the only one present, vulnerable.

A picture.

A picture suddenly appeared on his screen, Wei Ying peacefully curled in his bed with the cushion supporting him perfectly, the blanket resting just over his shoulders, his body faced towards the phone screen, resting on his side. It was an elegant picture, innocent and uncomely immaculate if not for the one reason that goose flesh rose up Wangji’s arms: the picture seemed overly _invasive_. It must’ve been an older photo for Wei Ying appeared in his youth where mischief found his expression even in sleep. But here, here his features were prostrated with weariness, his expression too somber and calculated, and the bedroom was an exact replica of the current architecture and design. More so, the cloud tattoo running across his collarbone could be seen in the photo. He had gotten that tattoo at twenty seven.

_It’s just the sky above us, _he had told Wangji before he had himself inked. Wangji had wondered if that meant that it would be just the two of them, just the two of them and the sky above. Or maybe Wangji’s head was in the clouds again and he thought too much of such a little incident.

Looking at the picture, he began to wonder if someone had edited his friend younger. Then he suddenly ruptured from his intellect: why was he receiving this message? It wasn’t Wei Ying’s number, nor was it in Wei Ying’s character. It did not sit well with Wangji as he sat up, staring closely at the image. He took in a sharp breath and tapped dial on the number the message had arrived from. There wasn’t a response right away but finally, he heard a voice.

“Hello? Lan Zhan? Is something wrong? Isn’t it like 4am in Seoul?” It was Wei Ying, his voice weighed down from dislodging himself from sleep. His voice _sounded_ different. If he had woken from sleep, it should’ve emerged itself into a more throaty pitch, deeper and bellowed from hibernation. It should’ve have sounded lighter and _younger_.

“Did you send me a picture?” Wangji asked, maintaining the composure in his tone. After all, it wasn’t Wei Ying he had called but the strange number. Why had Wei Ying answered?

Wei Ying was silent for a bit. In all honesty, he now felt guilty for not replying. Had Wangji called make clear if the picture had been lost or if his message hadn’t sent through? He had never sent anything. He replied in the negative, regretting it instantly.

“Wei Ying, why do you sound –“ but the phone call but cut off before Wangji could finish his sentence.

Wangji started, taking the phone from his ear when he realized it had terminated his conversation. He glanced at the phone screen to find another picture. This time, Wei Ying was alert and awake. The picture is taken from the right, same as before but farther off. The man now appeared as a young adult, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Wangji could feel panic creep inside of his ribcage as his heart began to beat faster, throbbing against his chest as though it had the solutions and demanded attention. Two more pictures were sent to his phone. In the first, Wei Ying stared at his own phone with confusion. In the next picture, he has the phone against his ear to dial back. Wangji’s eyes were large, but he waited patiently for Wei Ying’s voice to calm him down. Surely Wei Ying had an explanation.

Wangji’s phone never rang.

Why wasn’t it ringing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the short chapter. I've been updating other stories, and school + work is killing for reals.  
I promise we'll have a more suspenseful chapter come the week! ♥  
Give me some inspiration, guys! (desperate) I've been reading mini horror stories (/ω＼)


	5. The Moths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wei Ying, still before the vehicle, constantly heard a flutter of wings beside his ear. He flapped his hands at what it could’ve been, bothering at his body as though he had already molded, worms crawling from his eyes and a scent secreting from his pores like no other. Ooze. He sniffed himself and only took in the scent of cologne, too strong today, like it desired to mask the scent of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised a long chapter but I didn't mean for it to be THAT long, sorry!  
Tell me what you guys think. Wei Ying's in his head a lot so watch out for things that aren't actually happening.  
Here's to a chaos chapter together ♥

The dread of five minutes barely escaped the hands of patience. Nothing had arrived from its morbid liberation. Wangji felt the weight of his heart on his tongue, vibrating a dull rhythm behind his teeth as he stared at the photo with his naked eyes. Eyes that had been robbed from sleep, now detested the thought of lethargy, prying themselves open with alarum.

_Wei Ying…_he called, but words failed to leave his lips, the beating of his solid heart thick and obsessed, a bromidic rhythm that he casted from hearing. The silence had filled with it, that raucous, impending, thump thump thump of a heart beat that told him he was a country away, his arms too short to touch Wei Ying’s security, too weak to build up the walls and shield them within, together. This was not together. This was a haunted separation, and someone was watching Wei Ying, closer than Wangji could pray to be.

Quickly, he firmed his hands to avoid rapid shaking, speed dialing Jiang Cheng. If he could not be present, someone else had to be. The image of a young Wei Ying haunted his intellect, almost causing him to dial someone else. It didn’t matter, for the colorless keys of the dial repeated itself until Jiang Cheng’s voice alerted the called to provide a message. Wangji’s message was short and critical, it begged in a shaky voice, “wake up.” Something was wrong. Something was happening. Something was here. He faced his screen courageously, the same picture still present as though Wei Ying had taken to a tireless excursion of phone calls for peace, and yet Wangji had received naught. He received trepidation and a dull throb in his mouth, and words that didn’t abandon the safety of his lips. As a last attempt, he dialed Jin Ling’s number, hoping the child’s consciousness still lurked in the night over trivial matters for children surrendered their slumber to many things.

Jin Ling had not yet succumbed to the weight on his eyelids, hunched over his writing desk with his homework sprawled out before him. If he’d not yield to the need of sleep, he would have his things finished before class come the morrow. When his phone rang, he released a diminutive yelp over the soft keys of a classical melody from his stereo system. He immediately answered upon registering the name on the screen.

“Jin Ling, listen to me,” Wangji said. His voice was poisoned with a hollow reverberation that held true to his elegancy, but it was deeper and distraught, for a tongue of seriousness seemed to penetrate its confidence. Jin Ling found himself nodding obediently in the stead of answering with a verbal connection.

“Give the phone to Wei Ying,” Wangji ordered. He did not fall victim to the stutter creeping in his syllables, silencing the rapid pulse in his mouth. He stood up, taking control of the disasters surrounding his intellect.

Jin Ling again, obeyed without hesitation, though he had numbed strangely from the apparition of contact with Uncle Wei; why hadn’t Mr. Lan called directly to his cellphone? It’s almost as if something disturbed the tranquility of the line, like a man lurking in the bushes, prowling on the insignificance of a night stroll. Jin Ling shuttered at the day’s events, walking quickly down the halls and avoiding the darkness with every light switch until all of the halls were graced with lights again, a smile like a beam from the sun. He stalked into the dark of Uncle’s Wei’s corridor, knocking gently before entering.

Wei Ying had flustered his bedsheets in attempt to locate a position for secure slumber. The cool under his sheets had shed its layer for the warmth of his body, and now the humidity of the air had glossed his pale skin. He looked up, eyes blinking in a slow motion to adjust to the image of his nephew and the light that pooled in from the hallway. Not only was Wangji not answering his phone, most likely submitting to irritation from having been ignored, but now Wei Ying’s sleep couldn’t seem to anchor any leverage. His eyes were wary, but alert again as he glimpsed Jin Ling’s unsure features. The child didn’t know why he was here himself. The boy walked towards him, handing him his cellphone, his hands almost shaking. Wei Ying sat up instantly, taking the device to his ears. Before he could answer, Wangji said the following, “Who is watching you?”

Wei Ying froze, the warmth running along his legs and chest now conceded to the evident frost of the autumn air that had escaped the nook of a closed window.

“W-what is it?” Came Jin Ling, seeing that his uncle’s confident features had taken to a pale fixture.

“From the closet, someone is watching you,” Wangji breathed into the phone. He maintained the level of his voice, keeping it steady and wholesome in attempt to assuage the delicate detail of their distance. He could not open those closet doors for Wei Ying. He could not push Jin Ling behind him and substitute his build as a shield. Instead, he filled the night with the duration of his voice, hollow, smooth, filling, a security to the naked vulnerability.

Wei Ying pulled Jin Ling closer, away from the proximity of the closet. Immediately, his hands probed for the pistol under his drawer surface. At the sight of it, Jin Ling sucked in his lips, standing behind his now very young uncle, and yet the security of the man still alleviated his nerves under the pretext of raised weaponry. Wei Ying pointed the pistol in the direction of his haunted closet doors, staring back at him with their massive build and guise of dark light. He gestured for Jin Ling to stay planted where he was as he brought himself closer to the tortured doors. In the dark light, the closet doors worried themselves into a crooked hunch, bent over and lurking, morphed shapes formed from hysteria. Wei Ying washed the thoughts away in the name of his pistol, cold to the touch as though it had never graced death. It never did, but in Wei Ying’s hands it could see warmth. Under the collision of his cheek and shoulder, he held the aegis of Wangji’s voice.

Close enough, he extended his free arm, yanking the confines of the doors open, filling his senses with the familiar scent of his clothing, clean linen, coziness bottled in between fabrics. On the floor, he noticed the corpses of moths, dozens of little crushed bodies and shattered wings like crooked hands had pulled them apart.

“W-what is it? What do you see?” Jin Ling questioned, trying to shoulder his hands into fists, and yet they continued to rattle with the tremble of his lips.

“It’s nothing,” Wei Ying replied, closing the doors behind him. “Jin Ling, go sleep with Jiang Cheng for the night.”

“Sleep with Uncle Cheng?” Jin Ling questioned, his expression a mixture of mortified and disgust. He couldn’t even imagine waking his uncle at this raw time of night. Wei Ying gave him a serious look, keeping his pistol by his side as though the darkness of the night would evolve, and everyone either slept in it or soaked in it. Jin Ling questioned nothing else, speeding into the halls to find his reasonable, for once, uncle. At Jin Ling’s departure, Wei Ying returned to the closet, walking himself inside and tugging at the fabrics of expensive clothing in search of a camera. There was obviously no one present, just moths under his feet where he sensitively attempted to avoid them. How had they gotten into his room? Why in such a mass?

Blazers and frock coats, dress pants and skinny jeans, t-shirts and dress shirts, wife beaters and logo tank tops. There came that dullness again, not the beating of a heart, but the click click click rhythm of the hooks clanking against one another like a repetitive drip drop of water from a faucet. He could almost feel the water sliding off his forearm and delicately tapping his feet, again and again and again. He looked up, consternation on his brow just to validate his imagination. He was completely dry and there was nothing present, just him, a young boy and his gun imprisoned between the margins of his clothing, disturbed by the night, soft to the touch.

Then he dropped the cellphone, surrendering Wangji’s protective breathing to a carpet scattered with death. A gunshot echoed into the daemon darkness.

In a premature moment, Jiang Cheng had descended the stairs, had hooked around a sharp corner, had run past the haunt of empty corridors and poured himself into Wei Ying’s room. His eyes scoured the bed, then the bathroom door left ajar, then the open closet where Wei Ying now sat on his bottom, as if he had fallen down from a shove. Jin Ling appeared behind Jiang Cheng, and the scatter of other footfall could be heard. The two Lan boys had been startled from their sleep.

“What happened?” Jiang Cheng demanded. The shade of darkness had streamed onto his shirtless body, pulling individual goose pimples from his flesh. Why was it so unearthly cold in Wei Ying’s room?

“I-I don’t know,” Wei Ying replied. His face was pale and lack of composure, his hair having had fallen into his eyes. He let out a breath of air, his desperate hands reaching out clumsily to the phone he had drop. As he maneuvered for the phone, his palm brushed against the furry body of a moth corpse.

“I thought I saw someone,” Wei Ying said, the warmth of his phone finally in reach again. He immediately placed the phone against his ear, and with misery, he released a slight sob of a sound. It was a wretched and mortified thing consisting of two syllables, and it had mustered all components of its structure in order to say it, a name, a spell, a plead. It said, “Lan Zhan.”

There was no one in the closet but the bodies of scattered moths. He could’ve sworn he saw one twitch, finalizing the moments where darkness fluttered the skies and he was panicking alone, dust in his eyes and mouth, and hands that reached out as he was failed to be pulled up. Dust in his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, in his pores and between his fingers, in his hands, under his feet, heavy heavy heavy, and no one had pulled pulled pulled him up. In his lips, only two syllables before the dust poured down his throat and he suffocated.

\---

The following morning resembled a simple display of frightened expressions masked by the delirium of daily events, orange juice and avocado spread on rye, trivial fancies and expectations discussed over the dinner table. Sizhui and Jingyi exchanged knowing glances; something had occurred the night before. After all, Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng, and Wei Ying had all slumbered in the same room, and their expressions housed a bit of fear at every turn. Jin Ling’s hands trembled with the glass in his hand, the liquid inside streaming side to side until he brought it to his lips in a cordial manner. He averted his eyes, staring at no one and nothing all at once. Today, the orange juice tasted a bit sour, bittersweet maybe, like tasting cologne on someone’s skin when they were too close. He exhaled, staring at the tablecloth before he took to his school bag, alerting the others that it was time for class. They walked their unsure bodies, a false confidence with hands in their back pockets, or inner sleeves. “The chill,” they called it, for Autumn fancied nothing more than to caress the neck, climb into the openings of clothing and rest these, gnawing at you until you closed the only opening. Then it would reside, unmoving, until you forgot that it was there.

They tumbled nonchalantly, seating themselves in the back, Jin Ling in the front, for he had wanted to be closer to Wei Ying without saying so. “No space,” he had said, though there was plenty. Wei Ying, still before the vehicle, constantly heard a flutter of wings beside his ear. He flapped his hands at what it could’ve been, bothering at his body as though he had already molded, worms crawling from his eyes and a scent secreting from his pores like no other. Ooze. He sniffed himself and only took in the scent of cologne, too strong today, like it desired to mask the scent of death. He reached into his bookbag for all of the necessities, a sigh on his tongue about returning to high school, returning to any educational institution that had washed the rebel from his very own gravity. He had changed, not because of school, because of life, because of age, and that was taken too. Closer, he dug into the bag, like it housed what he needed, his years, his knowledge, his courage – he felt like he would need it come the fall of the sun. The sunset they called it, but the moon would quake, a shiver of light down their spine and his very own protection resided so far. His legs couldn’t bring him there. He couldn’t walk there. Lan Zhan didn’t need to know his fear. Seoul was safe. He was – .

He pricked his finger on something between his notebooks, pulling his hand back to safety, where he could see it. It oozed the way the smell of death would from a body, instant crimson at the tip of his delicate fingers, just a slight indention that had ruptured skin. Was skin so easily punctured? He swore under his breath and peered inside to recognize the glint of a sharp edge, a “shard” of glass hiding between two paper folds. Frowning, he removed it, asking the air, for sometimes he could hear voices in it, who had placed such an inconvenient object in his bag.

“Jin Ling,” he called. “Discard of this later,” he finished, handing the boy the rather large piece of glass, that was now noticeably a shard from a mirror. He couldn’t collect days that the bookbag had seen, so naturally there was no memory of how or what generously gave the shard of glass back to his person. He didn’t need it, and neither would Jin Ling. There was no reason to keep it.

Buzzing. There it was again. The flutter flutter flutter of something, someone bothering at his ear. He waved his hands, while Jin Ling squinted for what must’ve been a petite gnat, vexing the fixtures of his uncle. The boy saw nothing, and Wei Ying had caught nothing. With another sigh, the man, now not resembling like so, slid a hand on the back of his neck. He felt something warm twitch between his fingers, and brought his hand forth, quickly to bring it away from his skin, when he saw another dead moth. Where were they coming from? He discarded it out of the window, goose flesh rising again as he thought about death resting on his neck, falling from the sky, covered in little hairs that would hide the bodies when they fell in your very locks. He rubbed his neck again, and again the sensation of another warm clump was felt in his palm, pulsating like a beating heart, covered in little hairs, quiet wings, dead. He threw it out of the window at once, removing himself from the vehicle to shake the dead insects from his clothing. Where were they coming from? Where were they coming from? He shook his collar, ruffled his shirt, stomped his feet, and nothing fell from him except a silly dance that affected Jin Ling’s expression very much so.

Entering the vehicle again, he found a dead moth on his seat as though he had sat upon it, crushing it under his weight, and yet the body was pristine, nicely laid to rest.

Or still alive.

He didn’t think, sweeping it from his seat, refusing to explain himself to the three boys when he wiped his bloody hand on his pants and sped the car across the pavement. The faster he drove, the slower his heart would beat, steady itself. He needed to relax, the clouds above his head, his voice quiet in his forehead, his heart sleeping in his chest. His hands were shaking again as he gripped the steering wheel harder to relinquish the pressure of nerves.

When he arrived at the building, Jiang Cheng seemed to have already made a call, already fabricated some excuse for a distant cousin to Jin Ling who needed temporary assistance until he moved again which would be expected quite shortly. In other words, Jiang Cheng thought the situation to alleviate itself, for Wei Ying had no explanation as to frustrate his years back into his bones. His cousin, XuanYu, the name Wei Ying had taken, was apparently delicate by nature and easily disturbed, and it was advised that no one bother at his intellect for his system was very sensitive. Wei Ying frowned at the explanation, finding that it would not at all distance him from the hands of his classmates’ pressure; moreover, it would call upon it in its stead. He would handle it. Wei Ying had seen his fair share of fights in his younger years. It had all ceased to exist, washing away after he determined that he would obtain a Master’s degree. He was no longer the boy he used to be, and refused to allow it entrance again. He was rational now. Wei Ying in his teen years had not been.

When they entered class, because of XuanYu’s “delicate nature,” he was not required to introduce himself. This was deeply appreciated, for there seemed to be a substitute teacher, a man who entered as square as geometry, face forward, cold, lost under the gaze of his hat and shrouded in darkness. The man said not a word to the class, unfiltered silence disturbed by the tweet of a bird farther in the distance, free from oddity.

The man started at the top left hand corner of the board, writing meticulously, slow movements with his back towards the class. He did not provide a name, seamlessly breezing directly into the lesson despite questions that arose around him. The click clack of the chalk against the board began a frenzy in Wei Ying’s chest again, a haunted metronome of shrill shrieks as the chalk was brought down like an incision on a body. Wei Ying took careful notes, writing everything the man wrote, a tireless endeavor. One character after the next, one character after the next, writing and writing and writing. The man finished half of the rows of the chalkboard, his body not bending to the strain of having to write in a lower position. His hand simply lowered itself, wrist upward as though the enterprise of doing so wasn’t a peculiarity.

Clack clack clack, shreek. The sound of the chalk against the wall, another row of notes. Not a single sound came from the lips of his classmates, just exchanged expressions, dull eyes, sharp eyebrows. Their lips were failing their words, unable to mask their confusion. Wei Ying obediently wrote, could sensitize that his wrist was beginning its aching stages, and yet his hands continue to write. When he had finished the notebook page, he continued to write off the page, a string of notes on the desk surface, down into the air, his hands as if on strings, continuing to write on the air words he couldn’t see. His eyes never left the front board, just catching glimpses of the world around him from his periphery.

He didn’t notice when his head hit the desk surface, his eyes closed, his soul awake. He could hear the flutter of wings surround his body, carrying it off, a flap flap flapping of wings as though they were rubbing off of one another, so engulfed by their quantity that they began to fly into one another, smashing skulls until they tumbled into the earth, twitching on the floor until someone brought their feet upon them. And death and death and death.

Wei Ying was screaming. He could feel his throat dry, his voice abandon him as he cried out. He could see, could feel, and yet he could not open his eyes, his mouth glued shut. The moths were crawling into his clothing, they were crawling into his ears, his nose, attempting to pull open his lips to dip their tiny bodies inside.

He could still hear the chalk against the chalkboard, could hear Jin Ling sigh beside him at his having had fallen asleep. And yet, he was alert, his body slumbering while he shook with the rage of his fear under his skin. He peeled at himself, tearing layers from his consciousness, yelling and pleading for someone to wake him. He could feel himself drowning under a layer of darkness, his own soul like lead, succumbing to its weight. He just needed to sleep. Sleep an endless sleep. Quietly quietly, like a lullaby.

He screamed again, his body fading, tumbling into the dark corners of his mind. He could see them, see the moths, their wings flapping into his body like the heaviness that pulled him down. Sinking and sinking, nothing and nothing, and his shrieking, a song that hailed mercy, a voice that called for Jin Ling. The boy was so close, he could touch him, move his fingertips, twitch his body, dictate a sign. Something that said the following, “help me help me I need help,” tumbled from his shaking hands.

It was becoming a chore to breathe. Something warm and wet had slid on his face, covering his lips and chin, slipping into his ears. It was viscous, and seemed to cover the death on his body with a breath of life, like a layer of quicklime over a carcass.

_God, I’m b-bleeding, _came his thoughts. He could still hear his voice. If he could hear it, surely someone else could. Surely Jin Ling would look up and notice his nose bleeding, so profusely, covering the seat.

_H-help me, _he stuttered, physically feeling his throat close up, choke on liquid coming from his mouth, slipping out between his lips.

_Jin Ling! Jin Ling, help Uncle Wei. I – I think I’m, _but he didn’t know exactly what was happening to him. He simply needed to open his eyes, scare himself awake, stop the blood, shiver. Someone would notice the shivering. He would shiver. He would shake. He was having a seizure. He was dying. He was dying. He was dying.

The clack clack shreek of the chalk sounded as a body crawled out of his mouth onto the desk, little feet on the stream of blood. He knew its wings would be coated in it, too heavy to lift so that when its head sunk, it would drown, unable to remove itself from the crimson. It was so warm, the blood, covering his cheek, dripping onto his clothing, the drip drip drop on the floor. A gentle cradlesong, singing him to sleep. Jin Ling was singing it, he could hear it, he heard it. A soft humming, a drip drip drop, the flutter flutter flutter, a clack clack shreek, a sound of a door hinge creaking.

The door? The classroom door?

“Is there someone here by the name of Jin XuanYu? You’re needed in the office to finish all of your papers,” came a voice.

Instantly, Wei Ying felt the pressure release, feel himself pull so roughly from his seat that he nearly fell off. He swatted his face for the thick blood, searching his desk for the pouring red, but there was nothing. His pencil was abandoned on the floor, his page slightly wrinkled from the collision of his cheek. When he took a glimpse at the door, a black haired boy with a ponytail, jade eyes, and a visible fang could be seen. He looked at Wei Ying impatiently.

“Well, are you going? Do you know the way? I don’t have time to show you,” he said. His voice wore a childlike elegance that Wei Ying used to carry as well, but Wei Ying did not attire his mouth with fangs, or fang, his scalp though, had two partings like horns on his head, He knew his type when he saw them.

“No, I’m good, thank you,” Wei Ying said just as the student disappeared into the hallway, failing to wait for him, his responsibility complete. Wei Ying watched as the teacher placed the chalk down, exiting the classroom and peering around the corner where the boy had entered. He stared for what seemed like a mile of a minute, before he turned with his geometric build, eyes averted, covered in shade, and took to the chalk again. There was no room left on the board.

Wei Ying excused himself quickly. The man was awfully strange, a strangeness that seemed familiar. And when Wei Ying had entered the hallway, he could again feel a gaze on his back as if the teacher had placed the chalk down and peered around the door to watch him traipse away, freed like birds flying in the sky, singing their delicate songs. A cradlesong.

He brought himself into the restroom to clear his thoughts, bending over a sink to throw water against his face, washing away the confusion. He could make things make sense. He was a rational man. He would never fall asleep in class if he could change that. Why had that just occurred?

He poured cold water over his eyes and turned off the facet when he finally noticed the noise in the restroom. The toilet in the last stall seemed to constantly flush, one after the next. His first thoughts struck, what a waste of water that was. Nearing the stall door, he could make out the pair of feet just at the bottom. The doors were built rather low, the onlooker needing to bend low in order to peer up the opening. For reasons unknown, Wei Ying didn’t call out or question if the individual was alright. Instead, he bent down on all fours and peered under the stall in an agonizingly slow manner. His heart was choking on his tongue. He almost thought to spit it out and be rid of the nuisance.

There it was.

The shoes.

Just the shoes.

There was a pair of shoes in the last stall, and no feet attached. Quickly, he lifted his palms and threw himself from the floor, standing on his feet again just to notice a dead moth still stuck to his palm. He flicked it from his skin, turning to exit the restroom when he noticed a moth flying under one of the lit bathroom sinks. When he neared it, he could make out the familiar red that dripped from the corner, a familiar shape that was missing from the mirror.

The shard.

The shard was bleeding, like someone had cut themselves with it again.

He had given it to Jin Ling. Jin Ling wasn’t in his sight.

This moth was _alive_. 

He ran, tearing into the hallways and back into the classroom, the run seeming twice as long as if his McLaren was parked the opposite direction. Did he run past the classroom? Wasn’t this the door? Where was the door? He ran faster, the numbers washing by him in a blur when he finally noticed the numbers, rushing into the class.

No one had noticed a thing, and yet, there was blood all over Jin Ling’s seat. With a rather dull expression, Jin Ling had taken the shard and dipped the entire blade into his open palm, squeezing harder and harder into his skin, his expression failing to display the pain that shot through his body.

“Jin Ling!” Wei Ying called, rushing over. Finally, gasps had escaped the class, the clatter of the chalk halting, but the man failing to turn around.

“Jin Ling, stop! Stop it!” Wei Ying hollered, taking his palm in his hands. Jin Ling did not meet his gaze, simply focused on the shard, pushing it farther until it tore through the other side, ripping at his knuckles.

Someone cried out.  
“Jin Ling, snap out of it!” Wei Ying screamed, holding up his face. The boy’s expression was grey, lack of color. Wei Ying could hear the moths again, feel them crawl around his body.

“Get away from him!” He shrieked at them, swatting his hands at nothing. He grabbed Jin Ling by the chin, looking into his ears and eyes, and finally he closed his hands on the mouth.

“Get away, get away!” He screamed, dipping his fingers into Jin Ling’s mouth. He felt past the tongue, past the teeth, tickling the uvula. Jin Ling gagged, and something warm came up his throat. Wei Ying stuffed his hands down farther, saliva spilling onto his knuckles and between his fingers until he felt the hairy body of the beast. He wrapped his middle and ring finger around it, pulling it free, tearing its wings against Jin Ling’s teeth on the way out. When it was free, he threw it with rage into the grown, stomping on it with his foot as color traced Jin Ling’s cheeks again. The boy gagged, choking as vomit came free from his throat, and then the wailing. He began to sob, holding onto Wei Ying as his shoulders shook and hands shook and body shook. His hand was spurting red, some of it visible on his cheeks, rushing down his wrists and forearm. How would he pull out the shard? How would he get it free from his hand? What was happening?

What was _happening_?

Wei Ying lifted his nephew from the ground, throwing him into his arms as he rushed from the classroom.

It had been following Wei Ying. And then it went for Jin Ling. Who was next?

_Jiang Cheng. It’s going to Jiang Cheng next, because he was there with me. Oh my god oh my god oh my god. How can I stop the bleeding? _Wei Ying grabbed paper towel from the restroom, wrapping it around Jin Ling’s hand.

“Don’t cry, Jin Ling, I’ll fix this, okay? I promise,” but he was nearly sobbing himself. Tears burned his eyes and throat as he watched the red paint the layers of paper, as the shard punctured a hole into it. He lifted the boy again, desperately maintaining his calm as he laid him in the back seat of his McLaren. He needed to get to Jiang Cheng. In the front seat, he accelerated to the company building, bursting through the doors with his nephew in tow, up the elevator and into the hallways. The office emerged into view.

_Please be okay please please be okay, _he thought, tearing the doors open as Jin Ling wore a bewildered expression. The boy was paling and shivering from the blood lost, but he obediently followed, running to meet his other uncle. Was it okay? Dear God, _was he okay_?

“Jiang Cheng!” Wei Ying screamed, watching as Jiang Cheng looked up from his notes from his office seat.

The man was fine.

“What? What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you to go to class until we figure this out?” His same irritation appeared, but it was hollow somehow. Then Wei Ying noticed his slower movements, how he failed to notice that Jin Ling was bleeding, how heavy his eyes looked, bags attached under them as if they were hanging on for dear life. As if something had kept Jiang Cheng awake all night. As if something had kept his eyes wide open.

Wei Ying walked closer, bending over the desk, Jin Ling’s hand in his own. Jiang Cheng raised an eyebrow, but his dull features were unmistakable.

“Look at me,” Wei Ying whispered, his lips shaking.

“What? What for?”

“_Look at_ _me_,” he repeated. Taking Jiang Cheng’s chin in his hand, he lifted, looking closely into his naked eyes. Today, those almond eyes weren’t sharp, clattered with a different darkness, a darkness that was fluttering in circles in his eyes, so small you could barely notice it.

Wei Ying took in a sharp breath, reaching for the nearest pen. Without thinking, he released Jin Ling’s hand, sending the pen directly into Jiang Cheng’s eyes.

The flutter of wings, a drip drip drop, a clack clack shreek, in his ears like a cradlesong that made his eyes heavy.


	6. Did You Kill It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” Wei Ying was wailing, darting into the floor to cover his head. No, he was wailing no longer; he was shrieking. His hands covered his ears so they couldn’t fly in, his eyes crunched shut so they couldn’t crawl in between his lids, his lips closed so they could wiggle in but his nose. His nose! What would he do? He smashed his face into his knees. Then again. Then again. Then again. His nose began to bleed. Yes! Yes, if it bled, there was no room for it to come inside.

It was two shake’s of a lamb’s tail before Jin Ling abandoned his obedient structure as a nephew and launched himself onto Wei Ying’s body, sending both into a crash against the desk. Above, Jiang Cheng released a throat curdling scream, his hands reaching for the pen but hesitant to pull it free less the wound become finalized by its removal. Wei Ying’s scalp hit the edge of the large desk as Jin Ling’s body met his. He didn’t remember his nephew to bear such strength, but he himself _was_ a child again. Jin Ling didn’t send punches or attack, his hands numb beside him as he stared at his uncles with horror. He knew naught what to do with his limbs, his body simply suppressing the other. What was _happening_?

Wei Ying’s mind was blank. A blank sheet of paper. The ink, after all, had spilled into Jiang Cheng’s eyes. He stared up at Jin Ling. The boy appeared as his father would’ve, but his ponytail resembled more so Wei Ying’s. A wicked smile on his face would distort his features to match Wei Ying’s.

When Wei Ying was younger. He was different now. And apparently out of his mind enough to assault his adoptive brother for no reason – wait, there _was_ a reason. Wei Ying always had a reason for doing the things that he did.

Above them, Jiang Cheng found his courage, reaching for the writing instrument in his socket. He released a slight whimper, curling his fingers around the body of the pen, and without a pause, he yanked. There came an audible popping sound as the pen tore again through flesh, a slight squish of liquids, and a spurt of crimson red before the pen was dislodged. The force of the pull sent Jiang Cheng staggering backwards, the swivel chair behind him sliding behind him as he struggled for balance and ultimately fell.

“Uncle Cheng!” Jin Ling called out, hopping free from the other as he rounded the table to find Jiang Cheng holding his face, unable to look up.

“U-uncle Cheng,” Jin Ling called again. Wei Ying stood up slowly, approached Jin Ling slowly, then stared into his eyes. Jin Ling held Shijie’s eyes, bright orbs, innocent. It was the rest of his face that adopted his father’s fierce arrogance, but also soft arrogance. His cheeks were pale enough to take to blush as easily as a rabbit would take to the grass. Wei Ying could feel the grass beneath him as he hopped around.

Bounce bounce bounce.

He was looking for something, wasn’t he?

_Focus. _He looked away from his nephew, his arm extending to touch Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. He realized his cheeks were streaked with tears.

“J-jiang Cheng…Jiang Cheng, did you kill it?” In his mind, he was sure he was asking the man if he was okay, but his lips were satisfied with other content. Jiang Cheng didn’t look up. Instead, he began to clumsily pick his body from the floor, his eyes still obscured by the shadow of his hands. He nearly tripped over the stands of the swivel chair again. If he did so, Wei Ying didn’t think he would have the courage to pry the man’s hands from his face. He needed to look into those eyes. Those eyes didn’t resemble Shijie’s. Jiang Cheng’s eyes were slit almonds. Jiang Cheng wasn’t like Shijie. Jiang Cheng might’ve been adopted. Jiang Cheng was just like him, adopted. Or Shijie was adopted. Who was adopted? – Right, Wei Ying, Wei Ying was adopted.

_Focus. _Wei Ying told himself. His mind was no longer an empty sheet. Someone continuously wrote content onto his lines. They wrote it bewilderedly, wildly, frantically – oh! He couldn’t think straight. He was looking through the scratches of ink. His tongue was saying things he didn’t want to say, and it was happening _again_.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying called from the floor, on his knees. “Jiang Cheng, did you kill it?” He crawled up Jiang Cheng’s shin’s and knee, climbing up his body until he was inches away from his palms, hovering over his eyes.

“Jiang Cheng,” he whispered. He was sure he could see his brother’s name scribbled in the lines. Yes, he was supposed to call Jiang Cheng. He also wanted to ask Jiang Cheng if he was alright. If he was hurting. He wanted to say, “what have I done?” Instead, he whispered again, “did you kill it?”

“Uncle Wei…” Jin Ling called out. “Uncle Wei, please…please don’t do this again.”

_Again? _Wei Ying didn’t see Jin Ling’s name in the lines. There were scribble scribble scribbles everywhere, but none of those nodes and curves and lines and crosshatches said “Jin Ling.” No, he wasn’t going to say anything to his nephew. The lines didn’t say so. It said “Jiang Cheng.”

His adoptive brother took a few cautious steps away from him, creating space before he began to edge his palms from his eyes. The shadow casted still obscured the horror underneath. Wei Ying moved closer, so close that he could’ve placed a kiss on his brother’s lips. He breathed against his cheek, invasively peering inside to validate his question.

Did he kill it? Was it dead? Was it gone? Was it still –

He heard it. A flutter flutter flutter that came again. Jiang Cheng removed his hands completely and the flutter returned, the winged beast flying free and circling them in madness. The light had blinded the creature, and in Wei Ying’s proximity, it had flown against his forehead and headed in the other direction. Wei Ying let out a wail, swatting against his forehead where they had touched, swatting at the air where it had flown. His arms were wild, his hands chaotic, chaotic like the dance of the creature, like neither of them could see. He missed it.

“Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” Wei Ying was wailing, darting into the floor to cover his head. No, he was wailing no longer; he was shrieking. His hands covered his ears so they couldn’t fly in, his eyes crunched shut so they couldn’t crawl in between his lids, his lips closed so they could wiggle in but his nose. His nose! What would he do? He smashed his face into his knees. Then again. Then again. Then again. His nose began to bleed. Yes! Yes, if it bled, there was no room for it to come inside. The blood would push it out. No one could get in.

He was still shrieking his mantra, his “kill it,” when four arms wrapped around him in an embrace. The arms were everywhere! They wrapped around his shoulders and waist and neck. It was hot. It was hot. It was hot. The fluttering sounds began to stifle like someone had suffocated him with a thick pillow and he couldn’t breath anymore. No, it was the blood. He couldn’t breathe through his nose because of the blood. The arms were his brother and nephew. It wasn’t hot; it was warmth. He was okay. He was safe. But he was still hopping around on the grass, a bounce bounce bouncing looking for someone. He dared, opening his eyes with caution before the moths could get in.

Was he here? Was he to the left? No. The right? No. Up? God, damn it, no! He wasn’t down. Down was where dead things went. He was alive. He was well. He was far far far away, and not here. And not here. Not here.

Wei Ying dropped his hands and sobbed into Jiang Cheng’s chest. Oh, why did he stab him? Why was he still hopping around in the field? Why was there grass everywhere?

“You’re okay,” Jiang Cheng’s voice soothed. He patted his back while Jin Ling embraced him, saying nothing. “You’re okay.”

“Did you kill it?” Wei Ying managed, through his tears. _God fucking…why? _Why was he still asking this question? But his paranoia got the better of his courage, and he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears again, body hunched with tension.

“Shh shh,” Jiang Cheng said. “I got it. I killed it, see? See, Wei Ying? It’s over there on the floor. Take a look, come, come take a look with me.” His voice was candy sweet. Wei Ying remembered voices like that. People always talked to him like that.

Like he was crazy.

His brother wouldn’t do that, so he followed, dragging his body over with his eyes still shut and his hands over his ears until he knew for certain. Why, he even wanted to smash his face against the desk once more to make certain that his blood would run away, push them out. But wait, if it congealed, that would be better. It would close up.

The moth was a corpse on the floor. It was flattened, and its wings had been shattered under the weight of Jiang Cheng’s shoes. It looked so pretty now that it was smashes, looked like ash and six legs. Wei Ying bent down to take a look.

“O-oh, Jiang Cheng…Jiang Cheng, why did you kill it?”

\---

They were silent in the car. Wei Ying took the back seat off of the basis that Jiang Cheng required that the boy needed his space. In the passenger seat, Jin Ling fused with his personal tension, his knuckles white and shoulders a hunched square. He took repetitive glances at his older uncle then at the child uncle, then back at the older uncle. Uncle Cheng’s eye was _okay_. It was slightly red but all in all, alright. That was _strange_.

“You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. Take a day off,” Jiang Cheng was saying to Wei Ying. The now boy was sprawled out on the backseats, his arm arched at an acute angle as he rested his head on it. In that stance, he could make out his heartbeat between the bumps of the car. He inhaled slower as if it would cease the sound.

“Wei Ying?” Jiang Cheng called again, taking his eyes off the road once to examine his brother’s reflection from the rearward mirror. Wei Ying didn’t look up, just straight ahead at the back of Jin Ling’s seat like he could _see_ him through it.

“It’s okay. I can’t miss the first day of school. Take me back, please,” Wei Ying was saying. His voice was so feeble and small today. He didn’t like it. He would speak like a bigger man tomorrow.

Jiang Cheng sighed quietly to himself, and Wei Ying only failed to hear it because he was counting his heart beats again and describing the texture of the leather seat in his head. It was a metronome of one repetitive word, just “leather leather leather” for every one of his heartbeats. When they arrived at the building, Wei Ying cheerfully said his goodbyes, taking Jin Ling by the hand and entering. Jiang Cheng had whispered something in Jin Ling’s ear, and his nephew had nodded, but Wei Ying didn’t hear because the weather was nice. They began to make their way into the school building again after Jiang Cheng made a phone call to the office. It was fine if it was the Jiangs. Anything could be dropped, but not school boys. So the boys entered the building without question, and was later received again by Sizhui and Jingyi. The two boys attempted to alleviate their attention from Wei Ying’s attire of pale skin and a reddish hue that had take to his nose. His eyes were distant as if they were seeing other things, or dancing moths above their heads and he was being sure that they did not touch the boys.

“How was the first day of school?” Sizhui attempted, a petite smile on his face for courtesy. Sizhui was so courteous. He was such a good boy. If he was any more good, Wei Ying would make him his son. He could hop around the field with him! They’d look together. Sizhui would be such a good son. He’d know where to find him, hop hop hop.

“Probably tiring, right? It’s always like that on the first day, _Mr. Wei_.” Sizhui looked uncomfortable for a moment, but he retained the smile on his face. Wei Ying cleared his mind for just a moment while the boy’s voice penetrated, and he nodded. Jin Ling decided to show the boys his hand but his expression requested for their silence. Jingyi swallowed, but they returned his exhibit with a nod of their own. As they make their way into the next class, they spoke of trivial things. Wei Ying didn’t wish about trivial things. He wanted to speak about deep things, serious things, like things he could find on the grass, someone he could find on the grass, how there were a lot of moths in autumn, and the handwriting in his brain was really really neat. He removed him into the hallway without their noticing.

As he entered, he walked directly into someone’s chest, someone he was just shy of a few inches, meaning the other was quite tall. Wei Ying had always been a rather tall boy. That’s why it had been so simple a maneuver for him to hop fences in his youth. He would not be hopping fences any longer. He was an adult.

“You’re either going to watch where you’re going or you get shoved out of the way. Move,” said the voice, and with that, the senior from before, who had saved him from his episode in class, had taken to pushing him and walking ahead without him. Wei Ying instantly noticed how the boy wasn’t in class and from what he could see, constantly in the hallways. Ditching. He decided not to follow him and returned to the classroom, noticing that all of the seats were now occupied except the teacher’s. Two things could’ve happened, he could sit in it like he would’ve done back then, or he would be an adult and find another seat. He quickly turned, entering another classroom and requested another seat for their class was overpopulated. With the seat, he politely placed his seat beside Jin Ling’s without pushing it against the floors. They made loud noises when you did that.

“Does you hand hurt?” He finally whispered. It’s what he wanted to ask, good.

“It’s fine. Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“How are _you_ feeling?”

“I’m fine. Uncle Wei, did you…did you eat your candy this morning?”

Wei Ying avoided the question. He thought that the water always washed out the bitter taste of the candy so he hadn’t taken it. He diverted his gaze and kept his thoughts to himself, avoided telling him that he was waiting for Wangji to call because he wasn’t going to appear on the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would LOVE to hear opinions of Wei Ying in this chapter. Obviously, he flutters in and out of his head sometimes so it's complicated to discern what is happening to him. I would love guesses as to why he's like this.   
As always, thanks for reading, and as usual, i'll edit the chapter after work to fix mistakes (so sorry!)


	7. Crooked Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was a pretty piece of jewelry, a treasure if you will. Wei Ying almost wanted to take him and hang him up by the mantel. Just then, the substitute teacher seemed to appear in the opposite hallway. His walk was a little crooked.
> 
> Crooked like a crooked pinky when you broke it off.

Jingyi didn’t want to say it, but the more he found himself dragging his feet, the closer to Sizhui’s shoulder he seemed to be, closer to his ear. He took a deep breath that eased into a sigh, one that he didn’t know he had been holding in. Sizhui instantly looked in his direction, concern written on his already agitated features. As of lately, Sizhui’s expression always held some sort of worry. It made him appear a bit older than he actually was, but his youth played a cunning role, and took most of him wherever he went.

“Your dad’s getting worse,” Jingyi told him. He didn’t want to admit it, no – it was quiet, held in by everyone. The candies were helping him. Wei Ying didn’t have to like the candy very much, always said it tasted awful no matter how many times they told him not to allow it to dissolve in his mouth.

“Shh!” Sizhui hushed him, a finger in front of his lips. “Don’t call him that. What if he overhears?”

“Well, it’s not fair for _you_, Sizhui!” Jingyi shouted. Sizhui instantly looked at the ground, his features agitated once more but he said nothing, simply gazed at the floors, the areas that needed to be swept. The school looked dirty all of the sudden despite how clean it was. When he didn’t want to say anything, it was everyone else’s details that he paid attention to, and memories would flood him in the same manner that he discerned the details. For instance, the way his father still looked at him, the familial gaze of his eyes, the only thing that comforted the boy while they were being distanced by delirium.

“It’s fine,” Sizhui finally whispered, because it was. The last thing he wanted to do was further confuse his father while he was in such a state. He needed to build his foundation, support that, no matter the extent that it defeated their rationale.

“It’s not. We need to fix him.”

“There’s nothing to _fix_. He’s not broken, Jingyi. He’s completely fine.”

“That’s not what I meant. You know what I meant. And you can think that all you want, but really look at the bigger picture, because it’s huge. When you see it, we can tackle it then, but we’re going to do it together, okay?” It was no wonder that Jingyi’s voice began to soften for Sizhui’s eyes had begun to water though the tears did not exactly drop down his cheeks, simply manifesting enough that it took to soaking his eyelids whenever he blinked. He was sure another blink would bring the liquid into what it was, tears.

“He’s okay,” Sizhui was trying to say, but his words were suffocating in his throat again and his shoulders had started their trembling stages. “He’s okay, so I’m okay.”

And there it was, the tear, tumbling elegantly down his face despite how distressed he looked. It was almost soothing in a way, washing over the sands of frustration with a wave of sadness. Why, Sizhui was sure he could swim in it, or perhaps drown in it, the same manner that his father seemed to be drowning in his.

“What did you do? You made him cry,” Jin Ling suddenly said from behind. In his hands were three much needed lattes, two with whole milk and one with skim. He handed the skim to Sizhui, who took it without looking up though he thanked him.

“You need to eat more, Sizhui. You’ve been losing weight. You’re starting to look like…” but Jin Ling stopped there, biting his cheek to hush himself.

“I know. I’m starting to look like Mr. Wei,” Sizhui told him, another tear slipping free from his eyes in a free fall.

“You don’t have to say that. Uncle Wei went to the cafeteria, said he was looking for someone,” Jin Ling told him.

“And you just let him?” Sizhui’s eyes widened. He had never seen Jin Ling be so careless. There was a good chance Wei Ying _thought _he was in search of someone, as much as there was a chance that that person didn’t exist at all.

“Don’t worry! It was the most rational thing he said since he stabbed Uncle Cheng in the eye.”

“And how is that? He could get himself seriously lost, Jin Ling!”

“Look, now you’re even yelling at me. Calm down, Sizhui. Don’t even drink that thing. Here, take mine. You need to relax for a moment.” With that, Jin Ling exchanged cups with him as he continued speaking.

“He said he wanted to speak to our senior, that Xue Yang guy from class C. He wanted to thank him for waking him up in class, and he seemed pretty set on doing so, so I didn’t stop him. The more he talks to people, the better. Don’t let him coop himself in a corner.”

“Do you know Brother Xue?”

“Nope.”

“He’s a, pardon me for gossiping, but he isn’t a very good student. He’s always late and constantly in detention, and he never goes to his classes.”

“Sounds like Uncle Wei back then.”

“But do you see the problem? My dad can’t be around that. It could get him in serious trouble.”

“Look, just take a sip of your latte. Uncle Wei _needs _to be around more people like him. It’ll clear his head.”

“Xue Yang isn’t like him at all. _He’s not like that anymore_. He’s completely different now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go look for him before he gets himself in trouble. Here,” Sizhui handed him the latte in return without taking the other. It was just another meal that he’d be skipping as he fought for his father’s health.

\---

Not a single call from Lan Zhan. That was fine. The man was obviously busy. There were plenty of things to do in Seoul. That didn’t stop Wei Ying from thinking about it, much less not fuss over it. The more he thought about how busy Lan Zhan was, the clearer his thoughts seemed to be. He wasn’t hopping around anymore but running running running around and looking and looking.

Sizhui sure was a good kid. He could see him emerging from the hallway. He wished he himself was just as good as that boy! If he asked Sizhui, Sizhui would most likely run with him in search of a busy business man in Seoul. What a good idea. He’d save it for a good day. Today didn’t really seem like a good day. No, he didn’t feel good today.

“Look, your friend is here. Now stop saying weird stuff,” Xue Yang had said to him. “And stop following me around. Don’t you have class to be in?”

“Just one more. Why don’t you go to class too?”

“I go when I want.”

“That simply won’t do. You know the rules,” Wei Ying said happily, like there was nothing more happier in the world. It just seemed important, important to be in class and attend and pay attention. Xue Yang was a perfectly crafted young man. His eyes were a deep shade of jade, his hair as black as Lan Zhan’s, but he was pretty skinny, skinny in the manner that Wei Ying had been when he was younger, or right now. He resembled Wei Ying but he had a fang that made him look a year younger and a bit mischievous. Xue Yang’s attitude though, could’ve used improvement. He seemed always a shade away from vexation.

He was a pretty piece of jewelry, a treasure if you will. Wei Ying almost wanted to take him and hang him up by the mantel. Just then, the substitute teacher seemed to appear in the opposite hallway. His walk was a little crooked.

Crooked like a crooked pinky when you broke it off.

The first snap of the bone was the first step. The second was the sinew. The third was the stretch of the skin. The fourth was the tear of it altogether.

Wei Ying swallowed his breath and held it there. He could’ve really pictured himself taking Xue Yang and hanging him up, maybe not just the head but the entire body. He’d just puncture his back and hang him there the way people hung clothing up.

“You looked like you’ve seen a ghost. Did you hear a thing I just said?” Xue Yang asked, an eyebrow raised. He rolled his eyes and turned in the direction of the coming crooked man. Something about the crooked man reminded Wei Ying of the wicked man, and it terrified his skin, almost to the extent that it rolled right off his bones and coiled on the ground. He quickly took a hold of his own wrists less his skin come off in rolls. But with both hands occupying both wrists, who was going to stop Xue Yang from going in that direction? Wei Ying, with both hands still around his wrists, ran right into Xue Yang’s back, knocking the senior down into the ground where they both lost balance. Xue Yang caught his face before it met the floor boards, but his lips released a slight “oompf!” He had bit into his lip, and wasn’t sure if it was bleeding yet, though it surely was red. Wei Ying liked the color red. Busy business man in Seoul had given him a pretty red ribbon and he would always tie his hair up with that pretty red ribbon because it was pretty and it was red and busy business man ignored how busy he was when he was a business man and gave it to him. Out of instincts, Wei Ying reached up to his scalp in search of it, forgetting that he wasn’t wearing the ribbon today, just a a boring black hair tie.

He let go of his wrists.

“Ah!” Wei Ying screamed all of the sudden, bringing his hands back in horror. He could see it! He could see his bones! His skin was peeling right off. He should’ve been more careful! Damn it, he was bleeding. He needed stitches – right! Stitches would put it all back together.

“Mr. Wei!” Came Sizhui’s voice, a bit of concern and adjustment in his tone.

“Oh, for the love of – ! Get off! What’s wrong with you?” Xue Yang swore under his breath, shoving the now younger boy off who stared blankly at Sizhui as though a fairy had appear and given him carrots to lure out the busy white bunny.

“Mr. Wei, are you alright? Just look at you, you’ve fallen down. Here, let me help you up.”

“You’re always so nice, Sizhui. I hope no one breaks _your_ fingers off,” Wei Ying said, happily. It was the most thoughtful thing he could’ve thought of saying at the moment and he needed someone close to him to hear it. Yes, he hoped that no one would break Sizhui’s finger and make it crooked.

Where was the crooked man?

Sizhui paled at the words, but he swallowed and forced a smile on his face. Taking both of Wei Ying’s hands gently, he squeezed the way he always did to assure the older man that everything would be alright until other Papa returned. Dada always got that way when Papa was away. Just a little more, a little more time, short duration, hopefully no delays, and Papa would be back from his business trip. The only issue was fixing the only logical thing that happened, which was the most illogical thing that could’ve happened. Dada was now Sizhui’s age. It didn’t make any sense, but it made more sense than Dada ever could.

“See, look how pretty your fingers are, Sizhui. If they were crooked, you’d be a slant man,” and with that, Wei Ying laughed as though the content was funny. Beside him, even Xue Yang’s body began to fill itself with the rise of goose flesh. He made eye contact with Sizhui and quickly discarded his disturbance.

“Quit that. You sound like a weirdo,” Xue Yang told Wei Ying. He helped Sizhui to pull the boy to his feet for he unnecessarily decided to pressure the pull with his full bodyweight.

“I am a weirdo, Brother Xue. If you want me to stop being a weirdo, then go to class.”

“What kind of threat is that?”

“I’m not the threat. I’m perfectly proportioned. A little skinny, but proportioned. Look, you can even twist off my head and hang it up. We’re alike!” Wei Ying clapped, a wide grin on his face. He was so happy to find someone just like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took me FOREVER to get to, but it's here!  
Again, pay attention to everything that Wei Ying says. He oddly makes sense.


	8. The Fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not sick!” Wei Ying exclaimed, full passion and worry in his eyes. His raise in volume startled the two as their shoulders shook from its impact. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just not sick. I’m healthy. I’m really healthy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this time. Boy, this chapter was so hard to write. I write myself into another hell hole each time, like i'm not even sure what direction i'm taking. So YES, right now Wei Ying is actually a 16 year old. That bit is not in his head.

_For it was said by Richard Adams, “Rabbits are like human beings in many ways. One of these is certainly their staunch ability to withstand disaster and to let the stream of their life carry them along, past reaches of terror and loss. They have a certain quality which it would not be accurate to describe as callousness or indifference. It is, rather, a blessedly circumscribed imagination and an intuitive feeling that Life is Now.”_

Xue Yang frowned at him and said nothing more. Wei Ying could remember frowning like that in his adult form. They really looked alike, only Wei Ying’s rebel stages began to take a dive ending when he had approached Xue Yang’s age. Xue Yang was a little older than appropriate. What was appropriate again? Wei Ying lost himself in his thoughts, the place he usually wandered despite everyone’s obvious protest. Wei Ying liked protests, the sticks connecting to signs would serve as a good weapon in case anyone attempted to saw his head off. Oh dear, irrational thoughts again. Wei Ying could clear it. He was an adult with rational thoughts.

_Clear, _he thought. Out loud he smiled and said, “A man has a saw and we have _heads_.”

Xue Yang’s answer wasn’t something that Wei Ying had expected. The senior had leaned in and said the following, “take the saw for he has a head too, y’know.” At his words, Wei Ying’s fog cleared up and he stood on his feet, only to find that the substitute teacher was closer than imaginable. The man stood before them, face obscured under his hat despite the bright lighting that should’ve illuminated it. Wei Ying could taste bile in his throat, his hands reaching out and grabbing Sizhui’s. He gave a reassuring squeeze though Sizhui had sense not a single threat, just worry on his little boy mind about Wei Ying’s antics causing unredeemable trouble. Oddly enough, Wei Ying also reached out and grabbed Xue Yang’s too, giving that gentle squeeze that adults gave children on their shoulders. The squeeze said something along the lines of, “I’m here,” only this time Wei Ying wasn’t here alone; he seemed to have brought unwanted company with him. This company dictated grades, and he needed the very best grades. He needed to excel, needed to be sufficient, a good student. He could not repeat his past mistakes.

Xue Yang offered him a confused expression, but he hadn’t taken it. He let the boy have it, while he began to lead them away.

“Where are you taking me?” Xue Yang asked, turning around at the teacher and then at Wei Ying like something ought to be done. The teacher took a step forward, but Wei Ying had taken three. He turned around and excused himself with the other two, while Xue Yang attempted to pull his hand free. Wei Ying’s grip was rock solid, like it didn’t belong in a sixteen year old.

“We’re going to class, A-Yang. Follow the leader,” Wei Ying responded in a sing song voice, and Sizhui gave the senior boy an apologetic look.

“Who the hell’s the leader?”

“Oh, he’s not here. He’s in the grass. I’m look for him, y’know.”

“High in proteins, low in fats. Offer it a carrot or it will scat,” the teacher told him. His formidable build seemed to descend just then, down the hallway with quiet steps. The distance should’ve alleviated Wei Ying, but his chest rose and fell with quick rapid breaths. The ceiling above him swerved a full circle as he clung closer to Sizhui, shrinking beside him as though they would form the same circle, a circle of friendship so close that they could be family.

“Da – Mister Wei, what’s the matter? What’s got you so pale again?” Sizhui asked, touching his cheek. He felt Wei Ying’s forehead, but retracted it when it didn’t suggest a fever of any sorts. Wei Ying was apparently prone to those “fevers,” and he ran around often to be rid of them. He ran in circles and circles and circles to sweat the fevers off. He liked circles. The ceiling was still forming one. Oh, why was he shaking so badly?

“Dude, are you like, okay? You should go home for the day. You look sick,” Xue Yang said. He had succumbed to Wei Ying’s hold, and now naturally appeared as though he would walk beside him. Wei Ying looked like he needed it. He was _strange_, and Xue Yang didn’t feel at all comfortable letting the sophomore attend another class while he appeared as though he was going to faint.

“I’m not sick!” Wei Ying exclaimed, full passion and worry in his eyes. His raise in volume startled the two as their shoulders shook from its impact. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just not sick. I’m healthy. I’m really healthy.”

“I,” Xue Yang began, contemplating what to say. He looked over at Sizhui who shook his head as if to warn him against something. “Believe you. You’re healthy. Healthy boys need to rest.”

“Healthy boys are so healthy, they’ll go to school and pass all of their exams. They’ll be on the honor roll. They’ll surpass everyone’s expectations. They’re good boys,” Wei Ying told him. He nodded at himself like what he said had full merit. His body was shaking frantically like something else wanted to be said, and it was almost as afraid as he was, hiding in the tunnels of his throat while his expression held onto the following: “help.” He couldn’t say it though, because his tongue didn’t receive any orders. It was a lame instrument in his mouth. Someone could’ve cut it right off here and there, and the words would still hide in his throat. Maybe the man with the saw would cut it off. Maybe his tongue would flop on the floor like a fish choking for oxygen, the same way he would when all of the blood flew from his throat into his mouth and he couldn’t breathe.

“Great. Good boys go to heaven,” Xue Yang said, bored at the connotations of a perfect reputation. But that was where he chose incorrect words, for Wei Ying’s face distorted with horror once more. He released Sizhui and clung onto Xue Yang’s chest, leaning close to his face, his eyes wide with terror.

“Heaven? Heaven is where the dead people go. I’m alive, A-Yang. I’m alive!”

“Woah, woah, calm down.”

“How can I go to heaven if I’m still alive? I don’t want to go there yet! I want to stay! I want to stay!”

“Yuandao, _calm down_.”

“I can’t go there yet! I’m looking for someone. He’s very small, and white, and he hops around in the grass, and he eats carrots. He’s very quiet and hard to find. It’s like he’s not even here for me to find him sometimes, but that’s because he’s really small and can hide in the nooks and crannies. I’ll lure him out with a carrot! Carrots give you good eyesight. Maybe then he’ll see me, and he’ll come!”

Xue Yang grabbed Wei Ying by the shoulders, his hold sturdy and authoritative. His expression was serious when he forced Wei Ying’s shaking to subside, the warmth of his touch frightening away the dust of the cold that was starting to surround Wei Ying again.

“_Listen_ to me, Yuandao. You’re looking for a fucking rabbit, understand? He’s not ‘really really small.’ He’s not going to fit in a nook or cranny. He’s too big. Rabbits are pretty damn big, and they’re out in the open. If you don’t see him, he’s _not here_.”

Sizhui looked pained at the words, but he didn’t say anything to retort. Wei Ying’s eyes widened even further as though it was possible. He was sure they would roll right out of his sockets if he wasn’t careful. But Wei Ying was a careful man. He needed to be careful. He needed to be careful of everything.

“Shh, you can’t say that,” Wei Ying whispered in which Xue Yang shook his head as if he couldn’t be helped.

“I can. I can, because what you’re describing is a rabbit, and you’re a grown kid so you need to stop looking around for it. It’ll be just fine.”

“But – “

“No buts.”

“But!

“_Yuandao_, you’re starting to really piss me off. You’re not making any sense.”

“But he doesn’t know,” Wei Ying said miserably. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.”

“What? What doesn’t he know? What are you going to do? Tell him?”

“The teacher…”Wei Ying leaned in to whisper, his breath like frost all of the sudden while Xue Yang’s flesh rose into likeness of a goose’s as the feathers were plucked.

“The teacher eats rabbits.”

_‘High in protein, low in fats.’_

“And I too, I too, hop around,” and with that, Wei Ying ran off to class like his life depended on it. He needed to be there on time.

\---

Wangji had left four voicemails all day. He had attempted calling seven times to Wei Ying, six times to Sizhui, three times to Jin Ling, twice to Jiang Wanyin, and once to the Jiang company building. For some reason, his phone calls were not processing, though they had functioned just fine when he attempted to call anyone else. Were the lines down in Beijing? A nervous feeling settled in his stomach like a filtered ache. It ate away from the inside in the form of hunger, a growl of some sort though he was far from famished. He had taken a light dinner just a bit ago, and there was no reason for his stomach to be further vexed by the obligation of dining. He needed achieve some form of correspondence with his husband. Wei Ying could get a certain way when he was not present, and Seoul was farther than the usual excursion. His last trip to Shanghai had not concluded well, but faired much better than the current. After all, he could alleviate most of Wei Yings extremities as long as they were in contact. Here, he was now unable to contact him, or quite frankly, anyone in his immediate proximity. He also didn’t fancy the bit at all that he was unable to reach his son when he had promised daily phone calls for updates.

As a last resort, with the text messages receiving no replies, Wangji attempted to send Wanyin and Wei Ying a message to their work emails, something that they checked every day. When he went to check the sent status, it was exact and reassuring. He would able to slumber the night with that certainly, at least until a reply came in. There was no way they’d miss an email.

Though he tossed just a bit in his journey for attempted sleep, he was able to obtain at least a sufficient 6 hours before he prepared for the company meeting. But he wasn’t feeling well that morning. It wasn’t a feverish haze of any sorts, but a nervous moment in his stomach that hadn’t subsided since yesterday. He approached the window for the scenery to assuage his troubles. The balcony doors peaked out a fascinating open to the center of the city, but today the sky was overcast and dark. It was foreboding in a way for it stripped the buildings of their light and draped over a darkness that haunted their architecture.

_Oh, it’s raining, _he thought. Looking closer, the sky was indeed drizzling, like the atmosphere in his intellect that told him to skip the important meeting and return home. He instantly went to check his email to find that nothing had been responded to. Maybe they hadn’t gotten to it yet. Though he reasoned with it, it didn’t stand well in the pit of his stomach. He went to the closet to retrieve his umbrella, knowing that business called for a bit of distance. He had responsibilities as did Wei Ying. Both of them would be fine. Just another week and Wangji would be home, but first he needed to stop counting the days and fearing the worse.

When he exited the elevator and left the front doors, he found that the drizzles barely troubled him. He could easily maneuver around it with a few platters of water on his shoulders and somewhat lining his hair. It would be troubling to open an umbrella in such an account. Still, the sky was pretty dark. Perhaps the rain would intensify later on. He ought to keep his umbrella on his person just in case. He didn’t wanted to take a cab for the walk would alleviate most of his frustrations. He needed the fresh air since the hotel enclosed him in his many thoughts and paranoia. He would be calm. If he lost his composure, what would happen to his family?

Indeed, as he walked, the rain began to manifest as a larger entity, but not large enough that it would trouble him to the extent of opening the umbrella. It was merely an intense drizzle, and the water against his cheeks soothed him. Then something flashed in his eyes and he found himself clicking the umbrella open and hovering it above his head before a large splash made its way into his flesh. He looked up, for his umbrella was clear, so he could always discern what was happening around him. Wei Ying, after all, would always tell him that people watched them from all corners. Then he offered him carrot cake, and they shared carrot cake together.

The lump in Wangji’s stomach needed to wait. He glanced at the droplet of water, watched as it trailed down and off of his umbrella. Before he knew it, the sky was unsettled and the rain deepened, a storm almost. He heard and saw no lightning, but he quickened his pace as the wind began to pick up. Again, something flashed his line of vision and he maneuvered to dodge it. It splashed into his umbrella and bounced off. The liquid did not appear as though it was the same substance as the rain. How the rain was acidic and thin, this liquid was thick and almost patient. The rain was in a rush, running in rapid movements and archiving any area they could purchase, whereas this liquid was specific and waiting.

When he turned the corner, he caught sight of the liquid shooting from the sides, like someone was aiming for him. He quickly lowered his umbrella to block it, watching as it splashed off and disappeared amongst the rainwater, like little particles of it couldn’t be discerned properly. At this, he frowned at the thought of being targeted. He scrutinized his perimeters, a complication to see in the heavy rain.

“Where are you?” He asked no one in particular. He didn’t expect a response, but he required himself to ask before some sort of fear shook his frame. Another splash shot from the sides, aimed at his back this time. He turned quickly, lowering the umbrella while the actual rain soaked his scalp and suit. The liquid splashed off again, dispersing in a wild manner the way butterflies took to flying, or moths.

“Show yourself,” he demanded, but no one replied. Around him, people seemed to walk without suggesting another look. Why were they not noticing the strange display? When another splash travelled in his direction, Wangji blocked it with his umbrella then broke out in a free run to the building. The liquid didn’t feel quite right, like it shouldn’t touch his flesh. Perhaps his paranoia was starting to get to him, but he didn’t like it much to be touched by it.

He entered the company building soaked down to his naked bones. His suit clung to him and his hair stuck together in locks, sticking to his forehead and drawing itself around his neck like a noose. He untangled it quickly. His hair came roughly to about the length of his shoulders. There was no reason for it to curl around his neck, but he couldn’t diminish the thought that inferred he was choking. He couldn’t enter the meeting in his current attire, but he didn’t want to exit back into the rain. Maybe he would wait until the rain declined before it was safe enough to leave.

His phone vibrated again in his pocket. He quickly retracted the phone and attempted to wipe it on any parts of his clothing that was still dry, but he only further drenched the screen. Perhaps it was an email alert. Perhaps they answered and said everything was alright. Perhaps everything _was _alright and he was thinking too much.

It was a missed call from Wei Ying. Impossible. It never rung. He would never miss a phone call from his husband. He checked the text messages instantly for Wei Ying would whine if he hadn’t picked up. When the messages folder open, it was just a picture, no sender.

It was the fountain in the middle of the square back at home. He used to take Sizhui and Wei Ying on walks there when Sizhui was younger, a baby almost. Wei had been around 18, not quite an adult, not quite a child any more. The mischief he had adorned was starting to leave but his spirit was young. Yes, Wangji remembered that fountain, but he certainly didn’t remember the liquid being red. The fountain in the image was oozing red, like someone fell in and hit his head the same way Wei Ying did all those years ago. 


End file.
